My Secret Fear

Are you afraid of old age?

Ever since I can remember, it was not the thought of death which really terrified me, but of actually growing old. The thought of not having complete control of my body, and not being able to function in a self-sufficient manner, has always been a nightmare. I hate depending on others and being a burden, and the knowledge and certainty that someday, this time will arrive (if I do not die young that is), has always terrified me.

When I was nineteen, my grandfather, who was a writer, a poet, and a very intelligent man and whom I loved very much – had a stroke. He ended up in a wheel-chair, was not able to move the left side of his body at all, suffered from incontinence, and had to be lugged about, washed, cleaned, and taken care of by his two middle aged children and their spouses in order to survive. Day and night. Every day. For years. He begged us to let him end it. Twice, my mother found he had dragged his wheelchair to the window and was trying, ineffectually, to jump. Since assisted suicide is illegal in Malta, and since we didn’t want to let him go, we aborted his attempts. He suffered immensely for two years. And then, he had another stroke. A worse one, which caused him to actually forget who we were. I don’t even want to go into the agony I felt when my grandpa, who had been so independent, witty, and wise, who had survived the war and taught me to love books, reading and knowledge – didn’t even know who I was.

Anyways, after four and a half years of terrible pain, my grandpa died. I know that for him, this was a relief.

My grandma, his wife, is currently over 80 years old. She suffers from severe arthritis, can hardly walk, is almost deaf, and blind from one eye due to a botched cataract operation. She is lonely and misses my grandpa a lot. All she does is cry, swallow her pills (she has many of those), and pray. I love my grandma, but I know she is waiting for death. And that terrifies me.

It terrifies me because when I look at her, I see myself, as I will be, in some fifty or so years. It seems far away now… but time is short and flies quickly… and someday, that part of my life will arrive…

It does not bear thinking about…

 

Reality vs Fake Airs- Why Write?

I’m not the kind of girl who likes to boast. I don’t play the passive-aggressive card. I don’t like playing the victim in order to get pats on the back. I don’t like putting myself down in public, in order to receive commiserating compliments. I got past all that immature stuff at approximately the age of 15.

It does not mean that I am emotionless or that I don’t have feelings. On the contrary, it means that I only share what I find worth sharing. Moreover, I only share it with a limited number of people I am close to, and definitely not with social media at large. I’m not that desperate yet.

Perhaps it could be that I don’t have the unmitigated urge to display all my insecurities and naggy rages because I have, I admit, always been kind of an introvert. Yes, I communicate and share my experiences through writing, but still I  pay attention to get only as personal as I’m comfortable with. Especially if I’m writing something which, I know, many people are going to read. How many intimate sentimental poems have I written? How many embittered and angry short stories, reflecting my moods and my past, have I penned? How many irritated rants about my disgust and dissatisfaction with the human condition at large have I scribbled? No one knows the answer to this question except myself. Mainly because no one has read them – or if they did, it was only one or two people at the most. This is because, when my heart bleeds and my fingernails gauge half-moons of frustration on my palms, I write – I cannot help it – it is the way I vent what I feel and the way I tick. However, just because I write something, actually showing it to someone is something else entirely. 

I write for myself. I write because I cannot stop. I write because it helps me come to term with reality – ironic as that sounds.

Whether something is floating on a current of social media out there or not, is irrelevant.

I guess it all depends on whether you prioritize yourself as an individual most, or whether you are more focused on how you appear to others. For me, my internal personal life has always been more important than the way others perceive me, how ‘popular’ I am or what a ‘good’ impression others have of me. In the end, I prefer having some friends who care for me for who I really am, than many acquaintances who might hang out with me for any fake ‘persona’ I might project. At least I know that those who love me, love me. In all my silly, eccentric, weird singularity.

Quoting one of (in my opinion) the greatest fantasy writers of all time:

“My immagination makes me human and makes me a fool; it gives me all the world and exiles me from it.”
― Ursula K. Le Guin

I am not a COOL GIRL

“Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.” – Gillian Flynn

This is one of my favourite passages from ‘Gone Girl’ and one of the most revealing ones. Here again, is a case where those who have watched the movie but not read the book, will not understand at all. In the movie, we view the main character as a social psychopath because she goes ‘too far’ when exacting vengeance on her cheating husband, without knowing WHY. The novel explains it all. Especially to those girls, who like me, were never, never will be, and DO NOT WANT TO BE COOL.

In ‘Gone Girl’ Amy, from the very first date, tries to be the ‘cool girl’ – that kind of laid-back, hot-without-effort girl every guy wants to date. A poster child. A myth. She represses her feelings, represses herself every time there is something her husband does which she does not like or approve of, is always positive, even when she feels a mess, keeps her insecurities and internal turmoil locked away, and in reality tries to change and twist her character in order to please her partner. The problem is that she not only ends up unhappy and depressed, but that her partner doesn’t even ever know who she really is.

Well, I am not ‘cool girl’. Most definitely not. If you do something I don’t like, I will tell you. If I am pissed, I will tell you. I am weird, I am an introvert, I prefer books to most humans, and I am proud of that too. I am quirky and have strange habits you will never understand (though I appreciate you remembering them and making an effort to try). I am opinionated, loud, sulky, suffer from mood-swings. Sometimes I may go days without really wanting to talk about an issue, then out it will come in one big bang. Other times, I will chew off your ear for not using correct grammar, forget I have already told you something a thousand times, go on and on about the book I’m reading, give an impromptu lesson about some unpopular historical period, or just jump and hug you at inappropriate moments.

No, I am not cool – but here’s the thing – I am honest. I am true. And I am yours and yours only. What you see is what you get. I am scuffled, scarred, marked. I have been broken, and patched myself back togather more than once. I have been hurt, and sometimes it shows. This is what makes my love and feelings even stronger – no I could not love just anyone. I find it very hard to trust and show someone what I am really like, especially when I’m at my most vulnerable. But I have no problem with appearing weak, naked, pale and limp with you. You are the one who sees me at my best, holds me at my worst, and enjoys all the time in between.

No, I will never be cool. I do not even want to be cool. I am myself, that is who you love, and that is the reality. I do not put on masks with you, though I might when out ‘in real life’, especially since I do not condone or agree with most of the stupid populace out there. I am an intellectual elitist who realized early on in life that she cannot stomach most people, since most people are obtuse and stupid, and that is fine. I am someone who likes debate, is loud when talking about things close to her heart, passionate, hard-headed, yet open-minded and tolerant.

You know me. The real me. No – no ‘cool girl’ trying to be what others desire her to be here. Just me, holding your hand and kissing your shoulder while you sleep, knowing that you won’t even feel me, but doing it anyway, because I cannot be near you and not kiss you. Just me, playing with your curls and loving your clean smell right after you shower. Just me, getting lost in thoughts and dreams, jotting them down at 4am and then loosing the paper. Just me, re-arranging smarties by colour and drawing matching tattoos on napkins. Just me, putting my little treasures somewhere ‘for safe-keeping’ and then forgetting everything about them, and ‘re-discovering’ them months later. Just me, talking to cats in the street, and arguing with the T.V. Just me, re-arranging my socks, singing to anime songs, tipsy on Sangria waiting for you to come home.

I do not know what brought this on, especially since I was so angry all of last night and this morning. Don’t ask why. Believe me, you don’t wanna know ;p